


Swept Away

by HollyGoPossumlovesJ2



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Angst, Dean is attacked, Dean's POV, F/M, Hospitalized Dean, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester - Freeform, Original Character(s), Pre Season 1, Reader Insert, Sam Winchester - Freeform, Sexual Tension, Werewolves, Young Dean, a little fluffy too, canon level violence, hurt!Dean, mentions of - Freeform, your pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 03:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11304708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyGoPossumlovesJ2/pseuds/HollyGoPossumlovesJ2
Summary: That's probably why you were drawn to the black Chevy Impala parked to the left of the small parking lot. It was parked beneath a copse of trees, like the big black beauty could ever be inconspicuous. Add that to the silver scratches all along its side and hood, plus the flat tire that was sitting on its rim, made it even harder to miss.Maybe it's your insatiable curiosity that makes you walk a little closer to the damaged vehicle? It does tend to get you into a lot of trouble. You'd probably never know for sure. But you won't forget your first look inside.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So, this was written for @mamaredd123‘s Angst Appreciation Day Challenge, Shred All the Hearts. My prompt was to use the song ‘Listen to Your Heart’ by Roxette and to rip peoples hearts out. I hope I deliver on this request. I’m late as hell and I deeply apologize. This is only the first part, but there is plenty of angst here to enjoy.

**_I know there's something in the wake of your smile._  
** I get a notion from the look in your eyes, yea.  
You've built a love but that love falls apart.  
Your little piece of heaven turns too dark. 

It was a sunny, warm day in Agness, Oregon, and you couldn’t get a Roxette song out of your head. You had no idea why it was stuck on replay, but it wasn’t unusual for your brain to taunt you in this way. Wisps of thin clouds that look like they've been painted on a bright blue sky float by on a cool breeze. A promise that the temperature will drop nearly thirty degrees when the sun goes down due to the proximity of the mountains. You like the feeling of freedom that the place gives you, but you could do without the dramatic drops in temperature.

Your house sitting while your grandparents are spending the summer touring Europe. Being a junior in college, and accepting anything that would give decent pay, you are actually enjoying your alone time. Whether you are home in Seattle, Washington or at school at Washington State in Pullman, you are constantly surrounded by people.

Out here, in your grandparent’s cabin on the bank of the Rogue River, it's peaceful. You found yourself sitting on the deck most days, typing away at the book you've been writing for a year now. But, you can't expect much else from an English major with aspirations of publishing your many adventures one day, can you?

You don't really want for anything out here, except for maybe a Starbucks. You drive an hour out to buy a couple of weeks’ worth of groceries and that is your quota fill of socializing. If you are feeling extra adventurous, you stop at the Olive Garden on the route back home.

Agness is a small town, filled with mostly retired couples and the occasional tourist. From your trips into the quaint downtown to get your Starbucks fix in the form of a glass bottled Frappuccino, you’d met pretty much everyone in the neighborhood.

The residents all treat you like you are their own grandchild, dropping off meals and baked goods regularly. There is also Dr. Marjorie Foster, a divorcee who likes to pop by after crazy days at the hospital to share a bottle of wine and sarcastic banter. So, although you are technically alone, you feel rather safe and spoiled.

**_Listen to your heart_  
** when he's calling for you.  
Listen to your heart  
there's nothing else you can do. 

That's probably why you were drawn to the black Chevy Impala parked to the left of the small parking lot. It was parked beneath a copse of trees, like the big black beauty could ever be inconspicuous. Add that to the silver scratches all along its side and hood, plus the flat tire that was sitting on its rim, made it even harder to miss.

Maybe it's your insatiable curiosity that makes you walk a little closer to the damaged vehicle? It does tend to get you into a lot of trouble. You'd probably never know for sure. But you won't forget your first look inside.

The upholstery is slashed open, bits of yellow foam and tufts of heavy cotton are strewn about. But what catches your attention is the motionless heap in the back seat that you know, just by the sinking feeling in your gut, is a person who needs help.

You won't remember how you closed the distance between you and the car so quickly. Or your train of thought when you try to open the door only to discover it locked. You wrap your over shirt over your arm and put your elbow through the window without hesitation. You'll question your strength later.

By now Gregory, Matilda's husband (the one who makes incredible venison stew), stops pumping gas to see what all the commotion is about. You are already digging through the seat stuffing and blankets by the time he arrives behind you.

You faintly hear him speaking to someone on the phone, reporting in a panicked yet succinct tone to emergency officials, when you finally find bloody, pale skin. Luckily, it's attached to a person who is unfortunately torn to shreds.

“Hey!” You don't dare move him. Isn't that one of the basic rules in case of a back or neck injury? When the final blanket is pulled back you see the sharp jaw and hint of rose gold stubble. “Sir, can you hear me?” Your only response is a growled groan muffled by the seat where he has his face buried. But, at least it's something, right?

You take a quick survey of the inside of the car, noting used bandage papers and an empty bottle of cheap whiskey. When you climb into the car and sit down, your foot kicks an old bottle of pills. Was the man suicidal? All of this blood loss, whisky and upon looking at the label you discover that it is Darvocet. That stuff had been pulled off the market for years now!

“Hey, you with me?” He eases himself painfully slow into a sitting position, causing him to cry out hoarsely in pain. His voice already shredded like he had already done some screaming. He's panting in loud, painfully abrupt breaths through his open mouth. Everything about his boyish face is pinched with pain. Your heart squeezes with sympathy and absolute helplessness. You should've gone to med school like your dad wanted you to. Then you'd know exactly what to do.

You note then that his front side doesn't look any better than his blood soaked back does. It also revealed how his left leg is mangled and twisted in unnatural directions. Some of the blood is dried, making his skin stick to the seat. There’s no telling how long he'd been in this car bleeding and in pain.

“T’ll S- S’mmy, ‘m s-s’rry.” When you finally lock onto his ghost pale face, the expression there kicks you right in the stomach with a steel toed boot. His split bottom lip and chin are quivering with repressed emotion. His voice comes out shaky and raspy because he's vibrating with shivers that you know probably mean that he's in shock. He's probably been in shock for a while.

**_I don't know where you're going_  
** and I don't know why,  
but listen to your heart  
before you tell him goodbye. 

This guy, because man seemed like a bit much since he couldn't be much older than you, may very well have been trying to end it all if the pain openly displayed on his face is anything to go by. Through the black, crusted blood you can tell with startling clarity the difference between the physical and emotional pain on his expressive face.

You fight the urge to push his hair out of his eyes, which is obviously overgrown from a short haircut. It appears that way, anyway, judging by the shaggy and uneven ends. He looks like even his hair follicles hurt, caked in crusted and congealing blood, so you refrain.

“You're gonna tell him yourself.” You answer firmly as you wrap the scratchy, stiff blanket back over his shoulders when he shivers again violently.

Even that small movement prompts deeply hurt, wounded noises that get caught in the back of his throat, but you can tell that he's trying to hide just how much pain he’s in.

It makes you briefly wonder how someone who should be going to college or discovering themselves learned to be that damned stoic. “Hang in there, helps on the way. Is there anyone I can call for you?” You plead, wishing that the ambulance would hurry so that there was a way to eventually rectify the abject misery on his face. He's looking at you through his pain filled gaze as he softy answers ‘no’ and it rips your heart out. You feel inept and helpless.

**_Sometimes you wonder if this fight is worthwhile._  
** The precious moments are all lost in the tide, yea.  
They're swept away and nothing is what it seems,  
the feeling of belonging to your dreams. 

“An’ m’dad, too. T-t’ll m’s-srry I c’dn’t f-finish th’ j’b.” Liquid that has been building up in his eyes soon gives way to fat tears that tracks strange patterns through the new and old blood when he can't hold them back anymore. As he confesses what he thinks are his last words through busted, numb lips, it makes an icy shiver skip down your spine. “…’ts m’ f-fault… p-people ‘r g’nna die ‘causa m-me…” Tears progress into hiccupping sobs that make him squeeze his eyes shut against what you feel he thinks of as weakness and pain.

You look briefly for a wallet or phone, finding the latter on the floorboard. You get two seconds to feel victorious before you discover that there is a giant tooth mark in the middle, cracking the small screen into unusable pieces. “Shit.” Just what the hell had he gotten into that would cause so much damage? “What's your name?” You look for somewhere uninjured to rest a reassuring hand but can't find anywhere promising.

“Dean W’nchester.” You'll realize later how profound it is that he gave you his real name. That it was because all of his layers and walls were stripped down to nothing.

You know his bottomless green-hazel eyes will haunt you for the rest of your life if he doesn't make it. There was no other ending that you can bear to imagine for him. You know it sounds so naïve, but someone with this much soul can't just die such a horrific death all alone. You feel a small amount of relief when you can finally hear the sirens of the ambulance in the distance.

“They'll be here any second.” As you say the words you're not sure who you're trying to console more.

There's an hour drive to the nearest hospital in Gold Beach in his future. It's a small hospital that is the size of maybe two Costco warehouses shoved together. But surely, amongst their few floors of equipment and educated staff, they can fix the broken pieces?

In the two seconds of silence you decide that you can be positive enough for the both of you.

“Dean Winchester?” You rest your hand lightly over the one he isn't using to prop himself up. It startles you when his cold sweat covered hand grasps yours back painfully tight. The way he clings to you like you're a lifeline make tears pool in your eyes. “You're gonna make it. I promise.”

 

** Dean’s POV: **

  
I wake up suddenly, claws and massive, drooling jowls snap viciously at me from behind deep, shifting shadows. It feels like the beast is sitting on my chest, making it cave in. It's putrid, hot breath on my face. My ribs barely put up a fight before they snap like twigs beneath its weight, white hot, stabbing pains through my belly.

I try to struggle free but my arms and legs won't obey my commands for them to move. To fight back. So, all I can do is wait for him to consume me for dinner. All I hear are growls and distant shouting that are drowning out a strange, tinny beeping noise in the background. It reminds me of the sound of its claws digging into Baby’s quarter panel as it tried to peel her open and drag me back out into the dark of the mountain. Of the liquid heat of pain as it's claws raked through my skin like I was soft butter.

But then I hear, “Dean.” It kind of sounds like Sammy before his voice changed, soft and kind, if a little static and warped. But that can't be right. I hope that it means that the past few years were a nightmare, but it's only a slight hope. Good things rarely happen to a Winchester.

It's probably some newly created fresh hell conjured to torture and destroy me in my last seconds on earth. The thing I was hunting was a were wolf, I was sure of it. He looked normal, all wolfed out with gray, wiry hair. But when it found me… It was like his senses and strength were beyond what a normal were was capable of.

But it's too tempting not to answer, even if it's not real, as the tinny noise gets louder and more frantic. I'd give anything to be able to talk to Sam and tell him how sorry I am. I'd kill to tell him that I would stand up to Dad more so that we don't have to move around so much. So he can go to college close by. Anything. I can be better so he wants to come back.

The crushing weight of remembering that I'm alone nearly drowns out the relief of hearing Sam's voice. But I'm just that delirious to believe.

“S’mmy?”

I gag, choking on something that tastes a lot like old blood and cotton balls stuck in my throat. I finally get my arm to move so that I can remove whatever is clinging to my face. So that I can catch my breath but something heavy slams into my forehead.

“Dean. Hey, Dean! Please stop, you're gonna hurt yourself.”

And just like that all the fight drains out of me, envisioning a young Sammy with his stupid floppy hair and worry bright little kid eyes that are way too smart for his own good. “K, S’mmy. M’ s’rry.”

“You're okay. Everything's gonna be okay.” I feel the softest pressure against my temple and fingers brushing through my hair before I tunnel into nothingness.

When I wake up the second time the beeping doesn't sound so tinny. With the way my body and head aches, it actually sounds like its right in my ear. Fuck. I hope Sam got the license plate number off the damn truck that mowed me over. We were gonna sue the hell outta that bastard.

But what if he ran over Sam or Dad?

At that thought, my eyes shoot open and I'm moving before I even know what's weighing me down. I manage to drag my legs over the side of the bed just as a nurse comes running in.

“Mr. Winchester, please! Stop-“

However, I've already got the momentum going apparently and drop like a bag of damn rocks to the hard linoleum floor just as I realize my leg is encased in a large, heavy cast and incapable of holding my weight. Ugh. I didn't even want to know what kind of germs I was sitting in!

Belatedly, like a flame starting as a tiny spark only to turn into licking blaze-like pain engulfed me for an undeterminable amount of time. Like it had fought through the pain killers just for the joy of kicking my ass. I made sure not to panic. I had been in this headspace before, and nothing could be gained by losing my shit.

The first thing I vaguely noticed as the pained haze started to morph into a deep chasm of an entire body ache was a strange warmth crawling down my arm and thigh. Upon further investigation I discovered that I had managed to pull out both my iv catheter and my pee bag. Just fucking lovely.

The nurse with the pretty milk chocolate skin and curves enough to make a grown man weep had a look of deep sympathy on her doe features. “Well, welcome back to the world Mr. Winchester. Let's get you cleaned up, huh?”

I was beyond grateful that she didn't coo or fawn over me, saving what was left of my pride. However, there wasn't going to be much left for long.

What’s more embarrassing than getting a sponge bath from a beautiful woman in a totally not sexy way? It's having those same color rich eyes look at you with pity when you tell her for the millionth time that you don't have anyone to call while reinserting a catheter. Into your dick.

If I was hunting with Dad or Sam it would be up to me to sneak outta here and meet up at the first motel in the phone book. But that was why I was laid up in bed, wasn't it? Because Dad trusted me with a job and I'd gotten myself taken outta the game in the recon phase. Pathetic. It kinda makes a person unmotivated to move at all.

Honestly, I can't even remember how I got my dumb ass back to the Impala. 23 years of following my Dad around and apparently I had learned nothing from him. Even my memory was shot to hell, fuzzy and useless.

I drifted in and out as Octavia, who turned out not to be a nurse, but a third year intern, filled me in on my injuries. I lost count of how many stitches they'd done and how aggressively they'd had to treat my wounds with heavy iv antibiotics. She wasn't telling me anything I hadn't been through before, but I nodded along like I was concerned just the same.

Which, to be honest, wasn't all that hard because the memory of how these injuries were given to me appeared in flashes of red and black.

It wasn't too damning until she told me about my leg being broken. Which, hello! Cast! They'd been able to put a regular bone pin in my tibia, and she assured me that I'd be transitioning into a weight bearing boot in a couple of weeks.

Then, there was my right arm. Ha! They had to reset my shoulder (but honestly the damn thing had been out of joint at least three times already. No big deal.) there was a single break in my fore arm, which alright, no big. But it was just my luck that my trigger finger and thumb had been heavily bruised and had tiny hairline fractures on both of them.

Fuck.

Where was I gonna go? What was I gonna do when they inevitably kicked my homeless ass out of here? I didn't have enough money for pain meds, much less heavy duty antibiotics! And I'd be damned before I called my Dad to tell him how epically I failed at the hunt. At being a human being in general.

How was I gonna finish the hunt?

And my trigger finger was fucked!

Distantly I registered that stupid heart monitor beeping shrilly. God damnit, how could I have gotten myself into this mess?

“Calm down, Mr. Winchester.” Octavia sounded infinitely patient but firm as she adjusted the drip rate on my iv bag. I instantly start to feel calmer and I couldn't drum up enough energy to be indignant, sure that I was being given a sedative. If anything, I'd embrace the big black nothing just to not have to feel.

After a few moments I felt my heart rate slow, a cloud of comfort falling over me and making my problems a distant memory even though I knew they were right on the surface.

“Well, sugar, you do have a visitor. Now that you're back to your handsome self, do you want me to bring her back?” Her tone of voice was warm as she regarded me with her hands on her hips. I so wanted to say something flirty, maybe flash her a grin like I'd done to win over many a witness. I just didn't have the energy.

Sam had called it disgusting. I'd said flirting was my super power. Then Sam had said that ‘being a manwhore is not a super power.’

Aside from that, I couldn't figure out what she meant by visitor. Was it possible that Dad or… or maybe even Sam? But he'd have to be damn psychic.

She must've read the confusion all over my face. I could hear my father’s voice right in my ear, ‘Need to work on that poker face, son. You're gettin’ sloppy.’ Yeah, if he only knew.

“I would make time in this busy schedule of yours. Another couple of hours in that car and you wouldn't have made it if it wasn't for Y/N.” She was somehow stern while maintaining a kind face that I was afraid to cross. At my nod of agreement, she smiled wide. “Good boy.”

I vaguely remembered a girl climbing in Baby and helping me to sit up. Which had caused a whole hell of a lotta unnecessary pain if you asked me. But she had spoken in a soft voice and held my bloody hand. Maybe she'd even promised that I would live after I'd sat there and blubbered like an infant.

Still, no matter how relaxed I was, I wasn't prepared for the amount of beautiful that breezed through that doorway behind Octavia. In fact, I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open when Octavia spoke to me again in an amused tone.

“You just use that call button if you need anything, okay?” And then she was backing out with a smile and leaving me alone with… God, it was juvenile to think, but how could she be so striking? I was all for appreciating natural beauty, but her features stood out as exotic. Like she belonged in the wild with her long, wavy hair flowing behind her.

“Hey, Dean Winchester. You look a little better than you did a few days ago.” Her smile was warm and a little flirty as her lips formed the words and I struggled to comprehend them for a moment.

“A few days?” I managed to get out through my scratchy throat.

The smile fell as she bit her bottom lip when she nodded to confirm my fear. “It's actually been a couple of weeks. They were worried you wouldn't wake up again. That maybe you'd lost too much oxygen to your brain and caused some damage.”

Ha, now Dad could officially call me brain damaged! If he ever managed to find out about this little accident. Which he wouldn't if I had any say in the matter. It's not like he checked in very often nowadays. He was still brooding over Sam leaving and being stuck with the stupid son.

In fact, I wouldn’t put it past him to have sent me out on my own in hopes that I would get eaten. “Sorry to disappoint, Dad.” I muttered and felt the sardonic smile curl a side of my lip upward before I realized she was still here. “Sorry.” There was nothing left for me to do but close my eyes and feel my face flush in helpless embarrassment. Because that's just what I was. Helpless and in a medicated fog. I didn't even have the energy to pretend, not enough brain power to say ‘sorry, sweetheart’ with some kind of move to make her forget she ever saw me like this.

“Well, anyway.” I heard her steps move closer and opened my eyes to watch her swap out some dying flowers for a fresh bundle of purple like she'd been doing this all week. Maybe she had? The renewed scent of lavender filling the room and blocking out some of the hospital antiseptic was familiar. “I'm glad you're awake and getting better.”

She then sat down on the chair that was already perched close to the side of the bed with even more familiarity than the flowers. My mind immediately jumped to the Sammy-like voice that I'd heard before. “You were in here the first time I woke up.” I didn't mean for it to sound as accusatory as it did, but I was horrified that this girl kept seeing me in a vulnerable position over and over.

“Yes.” She didn't sound the least bit remorseful, maybe she was even a little defiant. “You were dreaming about being attacked. I felt so bad when they came in to sedate you, but you were gonna tear out your stitches.” She actually did look like she'd been worried and I couldn't figure out why she would be sitting at some strangers bedside wasting energy on worrying over them.

“How are you allowed in here anyway? Isn't it family only or some crap like that?” I was clearly lashing out and defensive because I was uncomfortable, but that doesn't mean I could stop it.

“Well, sorry to break it to you, but this place is smaller than Mayberry and I happen to have some connections.” She obviously meant that to be funny, but as the tone of my face didn't change, she straightened up in her seat. “I can go, if you want.” Why did she have to look so earnest and sweet, flashing puppy dog eyes so much like my little brothers? Only, they were the wrong shade of brown. “I actually used to volunteer here for a few summers. So, I kind of know everyone.” Her eyes brightened a little, “but that means I know where they stash the extra jello.”

“Well, I guess you can stay then, sweetheart.” The meds were messing with me, but I did manage to flash her a grin. If I were a stronger person I would've turned her away, but just a little human contact couldn't hurt, right? My father already thought I was a failure, might as well go for broke.

So, she stayed. Since I wasn't much for conversation, she mostly told me everything about herself. About college, what she was studying and summer break. (And didn't that hurt, thinking of Sam preferring to hang out with kids his own age instead of contacting me) About house sitting for her grandparents and what a ‘lovely’ little town Agness was.

Despite being on the knifes edge of explicit pain, I found her voice calming. I dozed off a few times, much to my embarrassment, but she didn't seem to mind. She only picked up where she left off.

When my first meal since I couldn't even remember arrived in the form of cream of wheat and beef broth, she got up to leave. She patted the top of my head softly, a move I would've found irritating if it hadn't felt so good. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

I even let her get close enough to kiss my cheek before she left and it was a pattern she continued to follow. I let her smooth down my hopeless hospital hair because it felt so damn good to be touched. I didn’t trust that I would see her again. But, I did.

Every few days she would replace the flowers without question and smuggle in extra Jello in her bag. I got used to her coming and was horrified that I looked forward to listening to her banter on without asking me 20 (painful) questions about my life.

The one day she didn't show up was actually a little devastating. The only thing that rectified the whole ordeal was that she'd texted Octavia to tell me she wouldn't be in. Octavia was the one to sneak in an extra pudding that night. I appreciated it, even though she brought the sugar free kind.

On top of being denied what I'd started to affectionately call my ‘candy striper time’, I was bombarded by financial services. They were looking for identification and insurance. Which I had neither.

The white haired, plump representative lady had left very disappointed. And I started to feel even more antsy. They were weaning me off of the iv pain killers onto pills with less strength. I could still feel the hum of muted pain through my body, but I couldn't bring myself to say a word.

The lady returned with another clip board later that day and I felt my face flush red as my blood pressure sky rocketed. She must've seen how irritated (anxious) I was because she explained immediately.

“Well, I had no idea you were a cousin of Y/N’s!” She paused for a moment, watching me expectantly for a reaction. When I gave her none, which what was I supposed to say? Yeah, being cousins is great! Did I even have real cousins?

She handed over the clipboard and pen and pointed out what I needed to fill out and where I needed to sign. Ha, like my signature actually meant anything! When I was finished with that, she flipped the page over and instructed me to fill out the form beneath it.

“The Y/L/N’s are very influential around here in the West Oregon and Washington areas. You're very lucky to be a part of that family, young man. All of your medical services will be covered. So, you make sure you keep those recheck appointments.”

I gave her an attempt at a smile, but I'm sure it fell flat. The best thing about it was that she didn't stick around for long.

After she left, I passed the rest of my time going between wondering how Sammy was doin and why Y/N had really picked me as a charity case. Which, come on, it wasn't like she picked me for my swollen face and sexual prowess. There had to be a catch.

It was somewhere around day 21 when Y/N came wheeling in with a wheel chair and an expectant look on her face. The days had been slipping by in a blur of all manner of people poking and prodding. If it weren’t for the open blinds on the window, I wouldn’t have a clue.

“I'm springing ya, Winchester.”

I'd spent the entire day in fear of those words. Where was I supposed to go? The impala wasn't moving without a lot of tender loving care and she was parked right in the middle of town. I couldn't just stay there and wait it out until I could move again.

“Already?” I managed, my voice was still scratched all to hell. It made me sound like I was going through freaking puberty again. Oh well, just add that to the list of shit happens. “I haven’t even called my ride yet.”

She smiled brightly, like seriously, how were her teeth so white? “I’m your ride.”

And how could I argue with that? ‘No, that’s okay, my Dad’ll show up. I promise?’ Or maybe, ‘Hey, my brother isn’t too far south from here. He could totally be here in a day…’

So, against my better judgement and all of my instincts telling me that this was ridiculous… I let her lead the way for better or for worse.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Having Dean, even convalescing and heavily medicated, gave an entire new mood to your grandparents’ house. He was jumpy and downright paranoid which in turn made you jumpy and desperate. You couldn’t really remember how many times you'd caught him spilling salt across his bedroom doorway and the window sill.

 

You'd swept it up a couple of times and then decided if it made him feel better just to leave it for Christ’s sake! It did seem to make him less likely to refuse pain meds.

 

So, needless to say really, Dean had a hard time adjusting to being there with you. For the first week alone, Dean threatened to leave. He'd mumble about stuff he had to do, but you cut any attempts to leave when you told him that you had the Impala in the garage. The once sleek car was in no condition to be peeling out of here. Ya know, with its distinct lack of four working tires.

 

The first night you'd had him home, set up in the master bedroom for its proximity to the bathroom, had been brutal. The mental implications from being attacked had been well controlled in hospital but he refused any and all medication once he was in your care.

 

_“Dean, please?” You found that you were incapable of controlling your emotions around him. His misery made your heart hurt and every fiber in your being longed to make this easier for him. “Just the anxiety meds then, please?”_

_You didn't believe in the whole psychic bull crap, but you believed that there were people out there that could feel what other’s felt. It was called being an empath, and there was no going to the school of mutants for you. But you found that all of the emotion Dean had coming off of him in waves was making you physically nauseas._

_There was a heavy gloss of unshed tears threatening to spill over his forest green eyes and you felt like you were back in the Impala nearly a month ago. You felt absolutely helpless as he merely shook his head ‘no’ in response._

_The guy was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He was obviously not used to depending on anyone, but he was in no position to rely on himself. Deep down you thought he realized that, but he couldn't stop trying to fight. It only resulted in causing him harm._

 

_The film of flop sweat was shiny over his pain flushed skin. He was visibly shivering in waves, his lips bitten raw and bruised. You weren't sure which was effecting him more. The pain or this uncontrolled paranoia that made him constantly look to all corners of the room like he expected something bad to jump out at him. He paid exceptional attention to the large double windows and you had the urge to smack your head against a wall._

_They guy had just been attacked by something and he had a front seat view to the dense woods that surrounded ¾’s of the property. Your abrupt movement to close the blinds and black out curtains made him jump. The pathetic noise of obvious pain he made pushing you to your absolute limit._

_“Look, I'll let you sprinkle salt or sugar or whatever the heck else you want to all over this room, but I need you to take something. For my sake, please? I'm losing my mind worrying about you.” Your own emotions that had been threatening all evening finally spilled over into fat tears._

_When you could bring yourself to look him in the eyes, embarrassed at your lack of control, you were stunned._

_The guy with rounded, worried eyes and the last vestiges of baby fat on his cheeks, looked shocked. You saw the emotions flicker across his face like he was broadcasting his own internal slide show. Like he was wondering why in the hell his pain would affect you so strongly._

_He maddeningly pulled his bottom lip between his teeth making him appear to be a lost child and a dirty dream all wrapped into one. You decided to push just a little further after watching him try to decide the most dominant emotion to go with._

_“Please? I can't.” You felt the warm salt of your tears roll over your lips and wiped at them with a little too much frustration. “I can't watch you suffer like this.”_

_Frustration punched you in the gut at his further indecision, like he still didn't understand._

_What kind of life had he lived to become this paranoid? How had he become so detached from his own well-being? You were desperate, “Dean, please?”_

_He relented with a “Fine,” that you felt he probably meant to sound exasperated, but came out wobbly._

_You didn't waste any time on questions before you put both the pain and anxiety tablets into his outstretched hand. You beat him to the bottle of water and managed to hold it for him to drink from. You didn't trust his grip to be steady or for him to actually swallow the tablets. So he begrudgingly showed you beneath his tongue and the inside of his dimpled cheeks._

_It wasn't the first time you'd thought that he was downright adorable with his grumpiness but you didn't dare tell him that. You'd witnessed your grumpy, unreachable father your entire life and had learned quickly._

_You sat with him, half unable to move because of emotional exhaustion and half worry that he'd purposefully spit the pills back up._

_It was late in the evening. Your campaign to have him take his medication had started at 9 pm. Now it was 11 pm._

_With bleary eyes, you watched whatever black and white horror movie he'd turned to on the TV set you'd lugged in to try to appease his anxiety. It was twisted that these old horror movies seemed to comfort him._

_He seemed to appreciate it for about ten minutes before his body began to droop in drugged relief. He fought it. Of course he did. His neck occasionally gave out on him and he'd snap back to attention causing you to rub yours in sympathy._

_It's possible you watched him for a full 5 minutes before you demanded that he scoot down so you could tug the blankets over his shivering, damaged body. He was healing, but you couldn't imagine the feeling of those gashes knitting together. Poor kid probably itched, but damn if you were gonna try to give him a Diphenhydramine after the fight you'd just won._

_As you leaned over to tuck the bright blue, down comforter under his chin, he clumsily grabbed onto the heavy silver ring hanging from your neck. His eyebrows were drawn together in contemplation._

_You smiled, gently removing his fingers so you could sit on the edge of the bed at his hip. “I'll tell you if you promise to stop fighting sleep. You won't get better without it.” You internally rolled your eyes for sounding like a mother hen but couldn't push aside that you cared for Dean a lot more than you ever expected to._

_Plus, it was a rather large ring to be wearing on a necklace. In fact, you'd learned early on to shorten the necklace so that it didn't knock you in the teeth. You liked the bulk of it, that it was obviously a man’s ring. That way most guys left you alone so you could focus on school._

_He nodded, a perturbed quirk to his lips._

_Dean was different than anyone you'd ever met. There was something about the way he drew you in. Even though he desperately fought any kind of assistance, you couldn't help but notice that his eyes begged for it. Like he wanted to trust and accept help but couldn't quite make himself believe he deserved it._

_“It belonged to my grandfather, on my mother’s side.” You began quietly, a lilt of pride to your tone. Your mother and your grandfather had left early in your life but hadn't failed to leave an impression. “I don't really fit in with the rest of my family. My father's side is kind of utilitarian and I'm more… a free spirit?”_

_You visibly rolled your eyes at your own awkwardness this time. However, despite the medication dragging him down, Dean nodded like he understood. Or at the very least was intently following what you were trying to say._

_“My Dad’s always saying that my tenacity would get me in trouble one day, but…” Even mentioning your father's cold words gave you a strange feeling in the pit of your stomach. “I guess I just turned out to be a lot like my mother and that scares him. So, I can’t entirely blame him for trying to protect me.”_

_There was a comfortable silence and you were convinced that Dean would finally be bored to death by your story and fall asleep to escape. But you found his glassy eyes still trained sharply on you for someone who was under the influence of a major pain medication._

_“Did you know-.” His voice came out a little choked and he paused to clear his throat before he continued. It didn't sound like it did much good, his voice sounding like someone had rasped his throat with sandpaper. “Did you know that silver is a good talisman?” He fingered the necklace lazily, his warm skin touching the sensitive places along your collarbone. You couldn't help but notice the electric charge it caused to dance beneath your skin. “It can protect you from a lot of bad things.”_

_You smiled, remembering the bright Summer day that your grandfather had given the ring to you. His smile had been warm on his aged face. His brown eyes always seeming to sparkle with humor. It was obvious that the man had lived a hard life and beneath the façade you knew he was tired. It was evident in the scars that you could spot on his arms and chest when his shirt allowed it._

_But the fact that he could smile and be happy just told you how strong he was. Both your grandfather and mother had been willful and you always hoped to live in their example. That had also been the last day you'd seen either of them._

_Dean's expression was still groggy but seemed to be searching your face, a want of something there in his eyes._

_“He said that it was to remind me that being different was good. That I didn't have to be like my father if I didn't want to be.” You closed your hand over his. Mostly to still his fingertips so that they would stop stirring the inappropriate fire in your veins. “His Dad had given it to him. So, I guess this affliction to be different does run in the family.” You flipped the ring over to show him the words engraved on the back._

_He was suddenly very close to your face as he read the words aloud, squinting to see the small script. “Be strong in the times when you want to be weak.” He nodded, his lips were a little clumsy as he said, “Sounds like a smart guy.” He was starting to lose the battle against sleep. So, when he relaxed back against the pillows, you indulged yourself and slid your fingers through his choppy, brown hair._

_“He was. The absolute best.” You whispered wistfully, your fingers trailing lightly against his forehead and temples as he hummed his contentment._

_It was then that you realized that Dean Winchester had managed to wedge a permanent place in your heart. Even though taking care of him could be difficult, you dreaded the time when he would leave._

 

Four nights later...

 

You were awakened suddenly by a wretched scream. A chill slid instantly through your body as you found yourself on your feet and moving towards the master bedroom.

 

You waited outside the door, every muscle tensed and your neck hair standing on end, listening. Even prepared, the miserable muffled moan made you jump before springing into action.

 

On the other side of the door, the lamp from his nightstand cast a warm, yellow glow across the scene. The blanket and sheets were tangled around his legs, his hair tufted in disarray. It would be humorous if it weren't for the pain filled pinch of his once relaxed features.

 

There was much advice out there on how to wake someone from a bad nightmare. They all fled your mind, only the need to soothe his fear and discomfort beating like a sledgehammer hard against your ribs.

 

Stupidly, you spoke his name, squeezing his shoulder in an attempt to get his attention. It turned out to be a deadly mistake as it took two seconds for Dean to twist around and press a knife blade into your throat.

 

“Dean!” It frustrated you that your voice shook a little, needing to appear fearless, as you gripped his wrist. “Dean, please.” You felt the cool bite of the blade dig into your skin before the tension drained from his grip and the knife thudded heavily to the carpet. All the air left your lungs at once and you collapsed into a nearby chair, blinking away the dark spots that had formed in your eyes.

 

When your vision cleared, you were able to see Dean finally start to awaken completely. It was downright terrifying what he had just done while barely conscious. You didn't doubt that this seemingly harmless, injured guy could be especially lethal when necessary. A wry smile quirked up the corner of his mouth, his voice barely above a breath. “Y/N...”

 

His cheeks were burning bright red beneath the shiny sheen of sweat that beaded up and slid down from his temples. His entire being oozed remorse and defeat and you couldn't help the ache in your chest, the need to pick this man back up again. There was no doubt in your mind now, the label you'd been trying to place on Dean and his behavior.

 

Tonight was when the last puzzle piece fell into place and you could put a name to who Dean Winchester really was. “You're a hunter.”

 

His expression shuttered closed so quickly that you were left a little dizzy. “How do you know about hunters?” The tone of his voice was suddenly a low growl, and you understood the sentiment perfectly. He wasn't afraid for himself. He was afraid for his family. His Dad and Sammy that he'd spoken about when you'd first found him in his car.

 

He was worried about the family that had inexplicably left him to fend for himself for the past month.

 

“My Mom and my grandfather, they were hunters.” You answered, boldly going over to straighten out the covers on the bed, using part of the sheet to press some of the moisture off of his face. Now that you knew what you were dealing with, you had no fear.

 

Dean was frowning now as he jerked away from your touch. His chest still heaving as he tried to shake the last of the panic that the nightmare had caused, but too stunned to completely resist your care.

 

“I never lived that life but I did read my grandfather’s journal so I have an idea of what it's like. That's why you're spreading salt and so paranoid.” Once Dean was untangled, you tried to make eye contact. “The strange pictures you drew on the windows; those are protective sigils right?” When Dean smacked his lips as if his mouth were dry, you ducked down to grab the bottled water that must've been tossed off of the table mid nightmare.

 

He slugged back a few mouthfuls greedily, his full lips creating quite the spectacle as a few drops broke free and dripped off his chin. “Why aren't you freakin out.” It didn't escape your notice that he didn't actually answer your question.

 

You wanted to smooth the wrinkle of skepticism that divided his raised eye brows. “I don't know.” You answered honestly, finding yourself drawn to the man like his green eyes were laser beam homing devices.

 

Like a captain willingly bashing her ship against the rocks of the shore, you found yourself willing to share the truths about your family. Truths that, although you didn't share in the obvious heritage of your father's family, you were bound to keep and protect. It took a lot of self-control not to divulge everything that you knew.

 

“You're not that scary.” You answered truthfully, “and I'm not defenseless.”

 

Dean regarded you quietly a moment, his verdurous, jade eyes assessing you thoroughly from this new perspective. Then he ducked his face from view mumbling under his breath. “Am too scary.”

 

“What attacked you?” You finally asked after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. Suspicion of what had happened starting to come together in your already crowded mind. Dean had been injured on a hunt. Something in these woods had torn him to freakin bits and it suddenly made the forest you'd played in as a child a perilous place. Your trust of how things worked in your world was instantly shattered.

 

You'd spent hours at a time exploring without supervision when you visited your grandparents. As you grew older, it was honestly the only place where you felt at peace with the world around you. So, to know something your grandfather or Mom would've hunted was out there lurking…

 

“A werewolf.”

 

Oh.

 

\------

 

As the days passed into weeks, you and Dean developed a routine. The comfort of having someone else in this house with you was surprising. Instead of on the deck, where you found yourself most inspired, you set yourself up on the garage steps to watch him work.

 

You didn't even question how he could afford it when packages with replacement parts started showing up on your door step. Especially the large box full of things to repair the upholstery that had made Dean beam with happiness. He'd been close to that excited about the extra pudding cups, but it couldn't have prepared you for that beautiful vision.

 

He was awkward with the cast still on his arm and the supportive boot he had on his leg. However, he attacked the renovation of his car with surprising intensity. The devotion he showed only strengthened the attraction you had for him over time. It was frustrating, honestly.

 

He'd spend hours out there, sweating and cussing, getting covered in grease. You could tell his finger and thumb still hurt, but you'd never seen someone so damn happy to have the braces removed.

 

Dr. Foster had taken to Dean and the enigmatic charm he started to ooze once he wasn't so medicated anymore, automatically. They'd met one evening when she'd shown up with a bottle of Zinfandel and a mouth full of complaints about some of her more idiotic patients.

 

Dean had asked with a frown on his face, “The liquor store out a whiskey?”

 

Marjorie Foster had been performing his checkup exams ever since. Especially since Dean had yet to show any interest in leaving the house.

 

Dean even refused to go on supply trips, but you were sure to bring him something from Olive Garden if you stopped by. Usually you were just eager to get back home. The two times you had gone you couldn't keep the thought out of your head that he would be gone before you got back. But he was usually waiting on the porch steps, ready to help you lug in what he could. It did no good to tell him to sit his butt down. That he was here to heal not for indentured servitude. Those conversations never went well.

 

So, when Marjorie even lugged her portable X-ray machine into the garage for a more thorough look, it was a relief.

 

According to her, Dean was progressing well. His bones were starting to knit back together and some of the more superficial cuts had turned to light pink scars.

 

You couldn't help the tiny bit of pride you felt after each successful recheck. You made sure Dean took his medication. You'd even taken to cooking up vegetable laden meals now that you weren't just responsible for you anymore. Dean frowned but there was never anything left on his plate. The man ate like it was going to be taken away from him, but you forgave the lack of manners because you now understood where he came from.

 

You felt pretty damn fantastic too.

 

“Damn, I could use a beer.” Dean grunted as he pulled himself up from his bent position that put him practically in the Impala’s engine.

 

“Bet you could.” You answered as you looked with laser focus at your laptop screen. You were determined not to give away how much you enjoyed watching his muscular back and shoulders push and bulge at his sweat damp t shirt. Injured or no, Dean Winchester could send your heart into palpitations.

 

“Not in a charitable mood, I take it?” He was suddenly close enough that you could smell the musk of sweat and the earthy minerals of the grease spread out in patches all over his exposed skin.

 

He would need a shower later and you felt the blood rise to your cheeks when you remembered a time when he had needed your help. Now he was pretty good at doing things on his own and you knew he had learned to be highly adaptive as a necessary skill for survival.

 

You still hadn't looked up but it was getting harder to resist, “I suppose I could be helpful just this once.” As a way of self-preservation, really. Anything to get away from the strangely alluring scent of his skin.

 

His laugh was warm and deep in his chest and damnit if just the sound didn't make you start to ruin your panties. You were in trouble, this little intimate bubble that you'd created by inviting him into your space was stabilizing yet treacherous. Well, more like you demanded he stay.

 

He gently gripped your chin between his thumb and pointer finger and guided you to lift your head. He was assessing your face in that intense way he'd looked over his car’s damages the first time.

 

He was so quiet, intently looking into your eyes like he could solve the mysteries of the universe by piercing your soul with his verdant stare. When his thumb caressed the dip of skin just below your lip, you gasped.

 

“I'm so grateful to you. All of the things you've done... You know that, right?” His expression was a study in sincerity, warmth oozing from every pore.

 

You laughed awkwardly as you tried to pull away, but his palm slid gritty over the smooth skin of your cheek to hold you in place. It was insane how the dirty friction of his palm against your cheek caused desire to spark in your belly.

 

“I mean it; you don't owe me a damn thing.” His eyes didn't lose their focus as his face approached yours until they threatened to cross. He was within centimeters of your lips and he paused there. His warm breath leaving damp condensation on your lips and causing your heart rate to rise.

 

He was waiting for you to close the gap, his dark eye lashes spreading gracefully over his still too pale, freckled cheeks. He was a well-crafted Greek sculpture and a sacrificial offering all in one.

 

It was the distress of his own breathing that gave you the confidence to close the distance. It was the low moan of pleasure from him as he pushed into the kiss that made the spark in your belly turn to a full on fire. He acted as if he were starved for physical touch as his good hand thread through your hair. The fingers that peaked out from the brace curled into your shirt like you might try to get away. Like you would ever want to.

 

The kiss was mostly chaste, his tongue barely licking in to trace your lips just to dip away again. The scratch of his stubble was harsh against your soft, smooth skin but reminded you of his greasy hands that made you squeeze your thighs together.

 

He was the one to break the kiss to breathe in big gulps of air as he rested his forehead against yours. “Damn, sweetheart. You sure are hard to resist, you know that?” He chuckled low in his chest again and you closed your eyes to savor the sound. Mostly, you wanted to savor the feelings it dragged out of you.

 

The only thing that dulled the intense feelings from the moment was the heavy sound of his support boot hitting the concrete steps on his way into the house. You let the sound of him walking away remind you that this was just temporary. Eventually Dean would be healed enough to leave and you were positive he wasn't so great with goodbyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader finds out some information that she wasn't prepared to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some canon level violence/angst and smut in this chapter!

As Dean continued to heal, the more antsy he became. He'd borrowed your laptop to do some research and it was obvious he was ready to move forward with his hunt. 

The frown on his pretty face when you brought him lunch one afternoon was a little disconcerting. You put the sandwich at his side and gently closed the laptop before you fixed him with a questioning look.

He looked uncertain while he inspected the plate of food. He was uncommonly quiet as he avoided your gaze, abusing his bottom lip with his teeth and driving you crazy.

Your patience ended rather quickly, “What is it?” You sat down at the opposite end of the kitchen table with your own sandwich, but you were fast losing your appetite.

“There haven't been any more attacks since... Since I was in the hospital. In fact, the attacks my Dad insisted had happened over the years are nowhere to be found.” You could tell he was extremely bothered by this turn of events but you couldn't for the life of you figure out why.

“Isn't that a good thing?” Maybe you were naive, but no more injured people sounded pretty awesome to you.

“No, it just means someone's lying.” You could tell that he was further processing things as his eyes squinted into the distance. He was chewing on one of your pencils, his fingers tapping idly on the old, wooden table. Every fiber of your being wanted to obliterate whatever was causing so much headache.

It was piss poor timing, but you wanted to change the subject. Besides you'd already told him everything about your family. Well, most of everything anyway. “So, how did your family end up hunting?”

This did catch his undivided attention, his gaze piercing in its intensity. It was quiet for several seconds before he dropped the pencil out of his mouth, long enough to wish you hadn't said a word. “My mother was burned alive in my brother’s nursery. My Dad’s been on the hunt ever since then.”

“Oh.” You were a stupid, stupid girl. “Are you close to your brother, then? I always wished I had a sibling around.” This time you did stuff your sandwich into your mouth. Maybe that would stop your damn inappropriate curiosity.

The further deterioration of his expression made you want to spit the sandwich out, but you continued to chew as penance. “Yeah, Sam. We were, but he decided the hunting life wasn't for him. It's just been me and my Dad for the past year.” He took a weary breath, “That's why he's not here. He's got tons of cases to deal with, otherwise he’d be here. That's why he sent me instead.” He shrugged and took a bite of his lunch with pain pinched eyes.

You swallowed and it felt like the lump of bread was stuck in your throat. So, you took a few gulps of water to dislodge it before you spoke again. “That must be hard for you. Being on the road all the time.”

You saw the smile and the bravado click into place like he always had it at the ready. It was painful to watch. “No way! There are definite perks to being on the road.” He took an enthusiastic bite of his sandwich, pulling his hand up in order to count the ways on his fingers. His speech was muffled by the food, but he seemed determined to make his point. “I mean, no cleaning up the house. No worrying about your girl cheating on you if you don’t stick around. Or graduation? Who needs to stand up in front of all those people, am I right? I can be whoever I wanna be, whenever I feel like it. No commitment. No worries.”

“Yeah, I'm sure some chick from the bar every night is really wholesome. And friends? What a burden.” You couldn't help but grumble, rolling your eyes. You couldn't make your hands work to pick up that damn sandwich anymore.

“Hey, I'll have you know I've satisfied many women from the bar. They come in all flavors and I like all of them.” The dirty grin he shot you was not helping matters. “And sometimes I stick around for breakfast, if you know what I mean.” His wiggling eye brows were for once not amusing.

“Do they take care of you? Do you feel good when you leave?” You didn't know why you were pushing it, but you did know that there was this jealous thing rippling just beneath the surface of your skin. It filled you with crazy buzzing energy. It was the false confidence that pulled you to your feet.

“What do you mean?” He looked extremely put out by your question, his eyes sparkling with amusement and watching you carefully as you approach. “Of course I get mine.”

“Yeah?” You sink to your knees against the uncomfortable hard wood floor of your grandparents’ cabin when you're in front of him, with all the intent of doing something extremely dirty and unadvisable. But damn if you can't stop your hands now as you push up the hem of his shirt to expose where you know there are pink scars left over warm, misleadingly soft skin. 

He slouches down in his chair to accommodate whatever you're doing, his eye brows raised along with his breathing. He's obviously surprised and it bolsters you further.

“Do they take care of you?” You let your lips whisper over the shiny stripes in his skin, feeling it as his stomach muscles contract. His breath catches in his throat as you press your lips to his scars. You let your tongue trace lightly before following the healed, jagged line with more kisses until you're right above his waist band. 

You feel empowered when he breathes the word, “Fuck.” He’s braced his hands on your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin as you kiss your way over the scars, old and new. You kiss his belly button, his sternum and his bruised ribs as your hands push his shirt up his sides. 

His breathing is a little ragged, his head resting against the top of the chair, when you kiss the flushed warm skin above his heart. You pull back only to help him out of his shirt, marveling in his pleasure blown eyes and swollen, bitten red lips. You lean back over, your midsection providing little friction for him as you kiss his chest again. “Someone should be taking care of you.”

Where had this hot, possessive feeling come from? You made your way up, nibbling across part of his collar bone before you reach his neck and pondered your behavior. You'd known from the moment you'd seen him that he was going to impact your life. You'd visited him almost every day that he had been unconscious with hope in your heart that he would wake up and be okay.

And now? Now that you'd finally been able to take care of him, you wanted to watch him fall apart. You wanted to be the one that put him back together again. You lean in closer to take the delicate skin of his neck between your teeth, feeling the now hard outline of his cock straining against the gym shorts he’s been bumming around in. You suck a bruise there before you ask with a roll of your body against his, “Is this okay?”

He grunts as you press closer to him, his grip tightening a little further so that you can feel his blunt nails through your shirt. “Fuck yes.” To your absolute pleasure, you can feel him vibrating with want. Your next kiss just below his ear is a little salty from sweat and you suck another bruise there to relish the taste of his skin.

You let your fingers tease just beneath the edge of his waist band, sure of his response when you ask, “What do you want?” Your lips brush petal soft against his ear and you feel him shiver a little harder.

A groan rumbles in his chest pressed hard against you. He wraps his good arm around to hold you tight and you can feel how he's shaking apart. You feel the heavy breaths he’s taking through an open mouth. 

You'd never been able to affect someone in such an intense way and the feeling burns sweetly in your chest. The love you were beginning to acknowledge terrified and exhilarated in equal measure.

He heaves a deep breath, trying to regain a modicum of control. “Bed.” He takes another breath, letting his hold on you loosen. “Bed now.”

You were so turned on that it doesn’t strike you as strange, hearing Dean hobble on his booted leg close behind you. His fingers are warm as they push under your shirt to grip your sides. You aid him by ripping off your clothes as you stumble to your room.

Somewhere along the way, Dean had lost his shorts and boxers. When you throw yourself on your back into the silk sheets of your bed, you try not to laugh at how his cock bounces while he limps over.

“Oh, it's funny, is it?” His words make you realize that you'd failed in containing your amusement. He flings himself onto the bed clumsily and manages to crawl over you. Placing his body weight over his good hand and knee and leaning on you with his other side.

You can't help the giggle that bubbles out of your throat as his fingers dig in to tickle your side. “I can't help it! It's flopping- Shit, Dean! Stop it! It looks like a deformed elephant trunk!” 

Now he laughs himself, burying his face in your neck and vibrating with it, unable to hold his own weight anymore. It feels good, the way his entire weight pins you to the bed. The sound of his laugh low and warm in your ears made the thing in your chest swell. 

You wrap your arms around him to hold him close, to savor the moment because suddenly time feels precious. Like there would never be enough with him. 

Soon, laughter turns into moans as hands explore new skin with reverence. Soon, mouths join in a kiss that refuses to part for oxygen. The air from each other's mouths suffice until it can't anymore. 

“Y/N, fuck-.” His hips stutter against you, his cock hot against your hip as you writhe together. Dean’s thigh provides delicious friction as your roll your hips against him. His hands come up cradle your face, his palms are a little sweaty. “I don't want to leave you.” It’s a gentle touch, a look of awe in the pools of green and black that make up his eyes. His words are a surprise to both of you. They're a confession that you're sure he didn't want to make but couldn't help.

“I don't want you to go.” Your voice is wrecked from force of the oxygen barreling out of your throat. Just the feeling of your body against his, the sounds he’s making, is enough to make you come apart. “You can stay here with me. Stay the summer…” The innocence of the moment nearly chokes you because you know Dean's seen so many things, but he's not jaded or cynical right now. It makes your need for him soar into overdrive, “Roll over.”

He follows your request without question. Dean on his back, his chest heaving, his blood warmed cheeks and neck shiny with sweat, is a sight you'll never forget. He's so wound up when you straddle his hips that he closes his eyes and tries to get his breathing under control.

It makes you worry instantly. You second guess yourself, “Am I hurting you?” Because surely he wouldn't be this affected by you alone.

“A little sore.” His lip quirks up in a grin, “But it's fucking worth it.” The grin transforms to this heartbreaking smile and your heart melts. Self-preservation is a lofty ideal somewhere out of reach.

You're 100 percent sure Dean wouldn't stop you if he were in pain, but he's hard enough to pound nails and there's desire oozing out of his every pore.

He watches you with something akin to wonder as you roll the condom you've grabbed from a box in your overnight bag over his angry, pink cock. It twitches in your hand as Dean takes several deep breaths.

The feeling of being full is almost overwhelming as you sink slowly onto him. His hands smooth over your skin in an almost comforting gesture and you have to wonder if he treats every one he's slept with this way.

He's never this tactile on a normal basis. Every time you've had to help him shower or redress some of his deeper wounds he'd almost seemed awkward. But now it's like a switch is flipped and all of the warmth he keeps in his heart is set loose. He's not guarding his expression anymore.

You're reminded that this started because you wanted to give him something. So, you make sure every caress, every swivel of your hips is for him. 

He leans up because just lying there and receiving pleasure seems to be against some code of his. Once you figure out what he wants, you stack all of your pillows behind him so he's not straining any of his healing ribs.

It's much better this way as he holds you close, kissing his way down your neck. He sucks a bruise just above your collarbone, the pleasure making you tense up and squeeze him in return. His answering moan tickles your skin and makes you smile stupidly.

This isn't like any sex you've ever had. Which if you were honest, hadn't been that much by this point in your life. But Dean, he’s an expert. He knows exactly where and how to touch you and it drives you to a precipice you hadn't expected.

He takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling and sucking with his tongue, and you can't help but run your fingers through the sweat damp hair at the nape of his neck. You hold him there, silently pleading for him to continue. It's a little awkward but he follows along as you continue to ride him. The moans and groans that escape his throat vibrate against your sensitive skin.

“Dean.” You pull a little on his hair making his muscles tense and moan to rumble low in his throat. “Oh, fuck that's hot.” You breathe, trying to gather some small part of composure to get his attention. You'll never find the words to tell him how he's affecting you, but you can show him. “Look at me.”

His mouth makes an obscene noise as he pulls away, but he doesn't miss a second, listening to your direction without pause. His face is beautifully flushed, his overgrown bangs sticking to his forehead. You watch as his eyes widen, as his pupils expand even further because of what he sees on your face. 

And that's it, it's all you need to push you over the edge. You struggle to keep your eyes open, to focus on his face as your orgasm takes you apart. You see how his expression twists like he's in pain but then his mouth goes slack. His eyes slam shut as he pulls you impossibly closer. 

You vaguely realize that you're repeating his name over and over, your face buried in the side of his neck as he holds you there. There's a choked off moan that turns into wet gasps against your ear as he tenses and relaxes against you over and over again.

You don't ever want to move from here, feeling the endorphins of a good orgasm flooding you in waves. You can feel how Dean's muscles still twitch a little, but he has yet to loosen his grip on your body. 

Just as you feel like you may drift off into a post sex haze, you feel his warm, soft lips begin to kiss you. He starts at the top of your shoulder, then up your neck to your cheek. Little reverent kisses that make you shiver until you turn your face so that you can return his kisses. It's slow and soft, the connection of lips a promise of sweet affection.

You let him guide you to lay down on your side. You feel him curl up behind you and hold you close after he gets rid of the condom. You feel how his body doesn't leave any space between you. It tickles a little when he buries his face in your hair and breathes deep against your neck but you don't dare make a move. Sleep claims you swiftly.

When you open your eyes to the green of the deciduous trees at the base of the mountain, you instinctively know that you're dreaming. 

In the distance you hear a familiar scream, a sound that physically causes a stabbing pain in your chest. You follow the noises, the dark of the forest making it hard to navigate but the sounds are impossible not to follow. 

You hear a low growl, vicious, and it makes sweat pool in the small of your back. Your t shirt is sticking to you, but it's cold outside. Has to be, this close to the mountain at night. 

You know you've found what you were searching for when you see the crimson of blood sinking into the damp soil like wax dripping down a candle. “Dean.”

“Go home, Y/N.” The voice isn’t who you expected, a frisson of ice slipping up your spine and making your arm hairs stand on end. It can't be him.

“Dad.” It's him, but his eyes are bright red. Your father stands as a formidable force, blood dripping down his clawed hands and getting caught by the wiry gray hair covering his body. You'd known it was possible, but you'd never seen this side to your father's family.

They'd always been warm and welcoming to you even though you weren't anything like them. Your father had assured you that there was no brutality in his pack. It was glaringly obvious now that you had been extremely sheltered.

Mentions of your mother from your father were as frequent as a leap year, a morsel dropped to be treasured. He hardly ever spoke about her. But he had assured you when you found out that ‘his Lila’ didn't suffer fools or savages. They didn't eat human hearts…

So, why was he standing there, Dean's life blood on his hands. “Stop it! Now! Why are you doing this?” You jog towards him on unsteady feet, intent on helping Dean in anyway. 

“Y/N.” Suddenly, your Grandfather is there, blood also on his hands. “You shouldn't have come here.” This couldn't be real. He was supposed to be touring Europe with your Grandmother, who hadn't been able to stop talking about the many venues they were touring.

“Oh my God.” You're on your knees beside him, a flash of déjà vu rushing over you. His skin isn't cold like it was when you'd found Dean in his Impala. A surge of moisture stings your eyes as you feel his hot, inflamed skin beneath your hands as you cradle his face. “Dean?”

“You won't understand, Y/N.” Your grandfather begins in a stern voice, speaking for your father who is shaking with what looks like complete rage in his eyes. “His Dad is the reason Lila is dead, Sweat Pea.”

“No.” It frustrates you that your voice shakes as it finally makes sense why you were drawn to his Impala. It's clear what needs to be done here, even if you won’t remember. “You're gonna pick him up and take him to a hospital!”

The rage wells up inside you as you pull your feet back beneath you with slow determination to stand up. 

“Revenge? You did this for revenge?!” Your fists collide with your father’s hairy chest as you push him away. “Are you kidding me?!” You voice is reaching shrill levels, making Dean groan where he's lying nearly unconscious. “Dean didn't do a damn thing to you!”

Your father spins you around with surprising strength, pinning your arms to your sides. “He kills people just like your family! Without blinking an eye, Y/N! It doesn't matter if they're guilty or innocent!” He sounds half crazed and you realize what suppressing grief must do to a person. 

You stop fighting his hold, tears now sliding down your face as his fingers dig harshly into your arms. “Daddy, this isn't you. You don't hurt people like this.”

“I'm sorry, y/n/n.” 

You wake up to late afternoon sunshine glaring brightly through the blinds and making a slatted pattern on your duvet. Your chest is achy painful and you feel a little stiff as you turn around in Dean's embrace.

He's barely awake, only slivers of green peeping from beneath sleep heavy eyelids. The view of Dean relaxed chases away some of the terror still pumping through your veins until his brow creases and he runs a thumb beneath your eyes.

“Are you okay?” His voice is raspy with sleep as his thumbs collect the moisture off of your cheeks.

“I'm fine.” You mumble from numb lips, visions from the nightmare making it back to you in splashes. You pull him closer so that you can bury your face in his chest. “Everything's fine.”

“Hey, you're kind of worrying me here…” You hear the concern in his voice and the guilt eats you alive. Your father did this to him. Your father, the man you had depended on to teach you right from wrong. The man who had provided for you and raised you had been the one to leave Dean to die in his car.

Tears flood your eyes and the shame almost chokes you. Now there's nothing more important than making sure Dean makes it out of Agness alive. “Does silver protect you from werewolves?”

There's a pause in the motion of his hand as it had been smoothing over your back. A tightening of his entire body that tells you his instincts are probably sounding in alarm. 

Good. He needs to be on alert.

“Theoretically...” 

Without another word, you pull away from him long enough to yank the chain from your neck. He watches you with narrowed eyes, all traces of the loving man you'd experienced before gone. “I want you to have this.” 

It makes sense to you now, how your grandfather had given you a silver ring. A good talisman, yes, but also very antiwerewolf. How had you not made that connection before?

You push the chunky ring onto his ring finger, only sparing a second to marvel at how well it fits. “I have to get you out of here.”

“What? Y/N, what the hell is going on?” You have only a moment to meet his eyes before you hear the front door open, heavy oak creaking on its hinges.

“Y/N?! Are you home, Sweat Pea?” The sound of your father’s voice has a strong fight or flight response deep in your gut as it echoes down the hall. You’d never had reason to fear him before, but now he had lied to you. He’d somehow made you forget what you’d witnessed. It hits you like a ton of bricks. This was why your Dad had paid for everything. This was why he had encouraged you to keep an eye on Dean.

You spring from the bed like you've been hit with a live wire and begin throwing on clothes. “Stay here!” You whisper yell, nearly toppling over as you step into the pair of shorts you were wearing earlier. “Coming, Dad!”


End file.
